


and we've heard this song before

by easystreets



Series: Swimming Pool [2]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Episode: Mac And Dennis Move To The Suburbs, Kissing, M/M, Mac and Dennis move to the suburbs, Swimming Pools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26507113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easystreets/pseuds/easystreets
Summary: Dennis hates the house, and it’s no secret. Mac tries here, and that’s what makes it worse-- the incessant half-assed attempts at mopping and vacuuming; the holes in the wall; the rugs tossed hazardously over the floor in an attempt to make it feel like home. Which both of them have never actually had, and they both know that. It’s a cheap approximation, some sort of miserable stage-set. The furniture isn’t even theirs; when they come in, hot and sweaty, they’ll have to drink their beers on a plastic-covered couch, and be careful to not drip pool water on the carpet.Mac, Dennis, and the outdoor pool they never knew they had.
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Series: Swimming Pool [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927165
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	and we've heard this song before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quartzpeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quartzpeach/gifts).



> For Quartzpeach, who inspired to finish the prequel to the first part in this series! Thank you! I hope you like it. I am not sure if this is what you wanted in regards to a resolution for the previous fic, but I wanted to write something that could've conceivably canonically happened, and thus this was born. :P

“Look at this,” Mac is saying, already ripping-- actually fucking tearing off a Tommy Bahama shirt, Jesus Christ, “we have a pool!”

Dennis hates the house, and it’s no secret. Mac _tries_ here, and that’s what makes it worse-- the incessant half-assed attempts at mopping and vacuuming; the holes in the wall; the rugs tossed hazardously over the floor in an attempt to make it feel like home. Which both of them have never actually had, and they both know that. It’s a cheap approximation, some sort of miserable stage-set. The furniture isn’t even theirs; when they come in, hot and sweaty, they’ll have to drink their beers on a plastic-covered couch, and be careful to not drip pool water on the carpet.

Mac is swatting at his ankles now, goading him: _get in, Dennis it’s hot as shit outside, we should live here forever_. It’s comfortably warm outside, there’s no denying the heat burning angrily against his back. There’s no denying that, yeah, Dennis would love to dive in and duck his head under the chlorinated water and only come up for air when the pressure got to be too much; later, in the afternoon, he could goad Mac into massaging suntan lotion into his back, drink margaritas out of the pitcher and laze in the sun with his best friend. Regular normal guy stuff.

Only his head is killing him, and he hates Mac. Only he’s worried that he’ll want to kiss Mac, or Mac’ll want to kiss him, and what then? There’s nothing to stop them from touching; Mac is in his fucking boxers, the house is empty and it’s a Tuesday morning. They could have the afternoon. They could have forever. This could be their house, their home, their ridiculous rented swimming pool with leaves and dead lizards floating on the top. It’s awful; it is theirs for the taking.

He’s considering going inside to change into swimming trunks (Mac might be wearing Fruit of the Loom boxers shoplifted from Walmart, but Dennis’s silk underwear are _not_ going to take well to the harmful pool chemicals) and pop a few ibuprofen, bring out a six-pack or two, when Mac’s sun-warm hands collide into his back and he’s falling in, really in, with his shorts and his watch on and his wallet, and there’s nothing to stop him, nothing but empty blue water and possibility.

“Fuck,” Dennis says, when he comes up for air. “Mac, I’m going to _kill_ you _\--_ ”

Then his hands are in Mac’s stupid hair, and Mac is kicking him in the kneecaps-- Dennis’s weak spot, how does he know that?-- and he’s trying to pull Mac underwater when Mac kisses him.

And well. Mac has kissed him before. He’s kissed Mac, when he was wasted or upset or wanted him to go to the WaWa and buy him condoms or orange juice or lottery tickets. But that came with a sort of pre-mediation, some sort of plan so that he could shrug his shoulders afterward and admire his own wiliness-- _see, he’s so easy, he’ll do anything for me_. This, however, is inexcusable. There’s no going back from this. This is Mac kissing Dennis and Dennis kissing Mac back. This is the two of them pressed together in a pool on a Tuesday afternoon, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything that’s ever burned angrily inside of him.

That’s why his fist collides with Mac’s mouth the moment he pulls away. Mac stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, hurt, betrayed, like the fucking dog inside, scratching at the door, before he shoves Dennis under and holds him down by his shoulders, sharp nails digging into soft flesh. He doesn’t let him up for a seemingly endless amount of time, until the cerulean blue of the pool starts to fade into splotches of hazy turquoise and grey, and Mac’s angry admonitions of _how could you kiss me, bro, how could you do that, do you want to rot in Hell forever, Dennis, do you_ , from above him start sounding far-away, like Mac could be yelling at anyone.

“I’m sorry,” Mac says, when he finally lets Dennis up and he looks it, too: bloody nose, tears waning in the corner of his eyes. Dennis is gasping and coughing and mad like a drenched cat-- Jesus fuck is he _livid_ at Mac-- but when he finally crawls out of the pool, pushing Mac away from the ladder so that he can be the first on the deck, so that Mac can’t push him back into the pool, the first thing he does is grab his hand and squeeze it tightly.

They walk inside silently. Mac, ever servile, grabs them beers before heading to the bathroom, where Dennis rummages for a fully-stocked First Aid Kit. He frowns at his grey reflection in the mirror, and smiles with a sort of shock when he realizes that Mac could have actually killed him if he’d wanted to. That if Mac had held him down a minute longer or if Dennis hadn’t gasped in such an angry breath of air before going under then he'd be gone, in a grave or wherever, rotting away in the dirt.

Right now, Dennis thinks, that wouldn’t be such a bad ending for him. Killed by his own scorned best friend. Nobody would come to his funeral-- maybe Dee; Frank would forget the date and Charlie’s banned from half the churches in Philly anyway-- but Mac. And maybe Jackie Denardo or Maureen if Mac guilted them enough, but he didn’t really want them there anyway.

When Mac’s nose finally stops bleeding and the colour rejoins Dennis’s face, they go and sit outside, feet kicking against the walls of the pool. There’s blood splattered on the deck, and Mac’s Tommy Bahama shirt is pooled in water. 

“Dennis,” Mac says, pulling a yellowed leaf off the surface of the water, “do you hate this house?”

He could be truthful. He could say, no, Mac, _I love it, I love pretending, I love how much this hurts, I love how every time I get close to you it feels like a knife is being stabbed in my back_. But it’s a Tuesday afternoon and his best friend’s blood is under his cuticles and there’s no getting it out. There’s a Coors that he’s only drinking to stop his hands from shaking.

“No,” Dennis says, smiling uncomfortably, trying his very best, knowing it will never be quite enough, “I, uh, like the outdoor pool.”

“Yeah,” Mac laughs, his voice airy and summer-sweet, “me too.”

Mac is inside, getting them more Coors, when Dennis says it, to the palms of his own shy hands: “I’m sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated. <3


End file.
